Defective
by AnonymousCreep
Summary: Winter doesn't last forever. Eventually, the stone cold façade of the Winter Soldier will crumble apart, but what does that mean for the rest of him? Picks up after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
1. Kindness

Kindness

He might've been sopping wet by then, his clothes hanging a bit heavier than he would've liked, his wet hair matted to his forehead and sides of his face, but none of that mattered. Right now, he was trying to keep the memories at bay, stop them from crowding his head and stuffing him until he thought he would burst. He hated to admit it, but he'd failed his mission. He was supposed to have killed that man, and for a minute, he thought he had. When the target had collapsed to his knees after the third gunshot, he'd thought that it was over. It wasn't until he felt the helicarrier lurch and tilt under his feet, half the room breaking apart in the sudden explosion, that he knew that he had been wrong.

He'd let himself be saved by his target. Granted, he'd beaten the good Captain into submission after he pulled the debris off and away from his legs, but in a moment of weakness (the Soldier cringed at the thought of it now) he had let the memories get the best of him and allowed his target to 'escape' into the waters below. Something stirred inside him, a memory tickling in his brain, telling him that that man in the star-spangled getup was important, not only to the mission but-for some reason he couldn't quite understand-to him as well. After diving into the water after him, the Soldier had dragged the man onto dry land, leaving him on the shores of the Potomac, unconscious and wet, but alive.

That was _not _supposed to have happened.

It had been nearly three hours since then, the Solider had walked and walked, keeping away from the populated parts of the city and closer to the tiny neighborhoods that dotted the outsides of the main hub. He could move without being noticed through the backyards of unsuspecting, mostly empty houses. He was betting on the parents being at work and their children being at school, so there was less chance of him being spotted sneaking through people's yards. He'd long since popped his shoulder back into place, grimacing when he did so and cursing the Captain in several different languages for being to one to dislocate his shoulder during the scuffle for the disabling chip, and leaving him scrambling with all of these thoughts and memories left unwanted. The Soldier knew, from somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had seen that bruised and bloodied face somewhere in his past before, knew that name that the Captain-_no, Steve_- kept referring to him as, and it drove him crazy. He couldn't think straight with all those memories suddenly flooding back through his head and if he even dared to try and make sense of them, more and more came running and crowded his mind as if someone had left a faucet running and the sink overflowing.

Headaches burned behind his forehead and the Soldier pinched the bridge of his nose as they grew in intensity. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, suppress the memories, desperately trying to block out the voice in his head-_You know you want this; you want to know what Steve is talking about, so why won't you just let it happen?_-and keep going. He jumped over a wooden fence, gracefully hoisting himself up and over the tops of the planks and thumped to the ground. So caught up in his struggle to shut the noise in his head up, the Soldier found himself totally caught off guard by a dog barking loudly at him from the backyard porch. All the training in the world couldn't keep him from flinching at the sudden outburst from the enormous Labrador now barreling at him from the wooden above ground porch. It jumped at him, barking and wagging its tail, showing no signs of wanting to hurt the Soldier, just really wanting someone to play with.

The Soldier wasn't having any of that, however, and kicked away at the dog, swatting it aside when it jumped up against his legs. He'd killed plenty of humans in his time, but never an animal; he didn't really want this stupid dog to be his first. But all of its damned barking wasn't doing much to alleviate the headaches and swearing expletives at the animal was doing nothing along the lines of making the furry, slobbering onslaught stop.

"Boxes!"

The Soldier froze and looked up to the porch nearly a foot away. The dog never calmed, but turned its head in the direction of the voice. "Boxes, here!" The dog-Boxes, the Soldier guessed, by the way it responded-took one last look at his new friend, and then bounded back towards the porch where he was greeted by a small boy who looked about seven or eight. The Soldier eyed them both, for a moment at a loss for what to do, and then moved to cross the yard and hop across the other fence. No need to start anything in the kid's yard. He just needed to get out of there, clear his head-

"Hey, you're bleeding, mister."

The Solider staggered a single step, faltering once, but regained his footing and continued walking as if nothing had ever happened. "I can give you some Band-Aids," piped the child. He held onto Boxes' collar with one hand and was clenching and unclenching his other for some odd reason. "If you don't put something on those cuts, they'll get infected. Then you can't go to your costume party." The Soldier faltered another step, this time stopping and turning to stare at the kid. "I'm not going to a costume party," he ground out. "You can borrow some of my dad's clothes if you don't have anything else to wear," said the boy. He seemed to keep talking forever. "Y'know, so you don't have to keep walking around in your costume." The Soldier considered just ignoring the boy and continuing on, but maybe the kid had a point. Eventually someone would see him, no matter how far away he kept from the city. If common sense and espionage and stealth training had ever taught him anything, it was that blending in was always the best tactical advantage, and he didn't want S.H.I.E.L.D., or what was left of them, picking him out just yet. He wasn't exactly the civilian type and certainly didn't look like it.

He turned back to the boy and walked towards the porch. "Fine." The boy grinned lopsidedly and guided the Soldier to the back door. Upon entering the boy's home, the Soldier took note of how quiet it was. The television was on, but it was turned to some colorful kids cartoon. The lights were turned off, allowing the natural daylight of mid-afternoon to pour through the sheer curtains of the living room and kitchen areas. Boxes, once let go of, circled around the Soldier's legs once before wandering off towards the kitchen. "Your parents aren't here?" the Soldier commented aloud, glancing around the home. The boy shook his head, his left arm which, was covered in a green cast, reaching up to scratch his freckled cheek. "Nope. They're at work right now, so it's me and Boxes."

The Soldier followed him through the living room, nearly tripping over a toy lying carelessly in the middle of the floor. "No babysitters or anything?" The boy shook his head again. "I'm old enough to be by myself. And I've got Boxes with me." He trotted up the stairs in the corner of the living room. "They never teach you anything about not talking to strangers?" he murmured, almost inaudibly. The boy turned suddenly, stopping so quickly that the Soldier nearly tripped over him as well. "Yeah, but you're not a stranger. And all strangers aren't bad people who want to hurt you. You're not a bad guy," he said. '_He's right. You weren't a bad guy once_,' came the voices again. The Soldier shook his head to clear it, already feeling the memories coming in droves. He'd never cared that his targets saw him as a bad guy, and he couldn't remember ever not being one. Well, until now. Why was he denying that there had been some good in him once? That there still might be some within him? What was he so afraid of? '_I'm not afraid,_' he told himself. He kept telling himself that mantra over and over, and slowly the voices and memories quietened. "How do you know that?" he asked the boy. "How do you know that I'm not a bad guy?" The boy stopped in front of a room in the hall and reached inside, turning on the lightswitch. It was a small bathroom, obviously one belonging to the boy, with light blue pieces of carpet placed in front of the sink, the bathtub and toilet. The shower curtain was clear, see-through plastic with little blue and white stars painted on. The boy pulled this back and exposed the side of the tub, gesturing to it as he turned back to the Soldier. "Sit here; I'll get the Band-Aids an' stuff."

The Soldier reluctantly seated himself on the edge of the tub and watched the boy rummage around underneath the sink. "My mom taught me how to clean up cuts an' stuff if I ever hurt myself when I was playing outside. I can take care of myself if I have to, an' I can help you too, if you want." He rose up again with a plastic bin in his arms, full of Band-Aid boxes, medical gauze, tubes of ointment and other medicinal paraphernalia. As he pulled out the Band-Aids and gauze, something about the whole scenario sparked a memory in the Soldier's mind.

"_Hold still, will you? Jeez, I wouldn't have to do this if you could just keep your nose out of other people's business," said a voice he recognized as his own. There was something about it that he hadn't heard in his speech for quite some time, not since he'd woken up in the HYDRA labs: teasing, lightheartedness, friendliness in general. "I was just trying to stick up for those soldiers. That guy had no business saying all the things he said in that theater. Disrespectful…" grumbled another voice. He knew this voice. It had been calling to him earlier today. He was a skinny guy in a dress shirt and loosed tie hanging limp around his neck. Sitting on the side of the dingy bathtub slumped forward with his forearms resting on his knees, he looked up at the Soldier, his face bruised and the reddish-purple fingermarks of a bruise trailing along his left cheekbone. A cotton ball was wedged up one nostril, lightly bloodied at the tip where blood had seeped through. "Well, you're not wrong. But still, Steve, don't go around trying to be a hero all the time. You mean well, yeah, but I'm not always going to be around to haul your ass outta danger. I don't particularly want to hear that you ended up in hospital somewhere for trying to save the day one of these days," came the unfamiliar Soldier's voice. He saw his hands reaching up and sticking an adhesive bandage along the bruise, then dusting them together and returning a roll of gauze to a cardboard box. "Just watch your own back, alright; don't worry about everyone else. I know that sounds really heartless, Steve, but until you can hold your own against three other guys who want a piece of you just because you were doing the right thing, do me a favor and don't try anything like that." He paused and ruffled the blonde's hair with a lopsided grin. "S'for your own good."_

The Soldier shook his head quickly. The memories were coming too quickly now and he could feel the beginnings of yet another headache. "What…happened to your arm?" he said, catching the boy's attention. He needed to keep the memories at bay and couldn't do that in idle silence. He just needed the boy to keep talking; he wasn't ready to handle all of those memories. Not here. "I fell off of the monkey bars at the playground. These kids were making fun of this first grader, so I went over and told them to quit it, y'know, pick on someone their own size an' stuff. Then they dared me to hang upside down on the monkey bars because they said if I was so brave then why didn't I do the dare," the boy paused and toddled over to the Soldier with the ointments and Band-Aids in his hands. "Those bars were slick 'cause it had just rained. I thought I was never gonna hit the ground."

"Well, if you could just keep your nose out of other people's business…" the Soldier murmured, freezing the minute those words left his mouth. That name he'd heard in every memory that had escaped his careful suppression, he knew he'd nearly pegged the boy with that moniker._ Steve_. The boy shrugged. "It's the right thing to do. My mom told me that I should always do the right thing. That's why I helped you too. And I know you aren't a bad guy," he said. He suddenly sniffed the air around the Soldier. "You…kinda stink, though," he added. "Like you've been swimming in a lake or something and then did a lot of exercises. You should take a shower. That'll wash the cuts an' stuff too, and then we can put the Band-Aids on. And don't worry about your costume, you can still borrow my dad's clothes. He won't mind."

The Soldier stared at the boy as though he might say something, then exhaled, blowing strands of hair out of his eyes. "It's not a costume." The boy grinned. "Your arm looks really cool though. Is it real?" he said, reaching out to touch it. The Soldier jerked away instinctively, instead busying himself with unclipping his vest. "It's not a costume, so obviously, yes," he said offering an answer to the wide-eyed boy. "Whoa! That's so cool!" His enormous smile died away for a moment as realization set in. "But won't it short out if we put it in water? Like _bzzzt, bzzzt_," he made little zapping noises to emphasize his point. "No," the Soldier replied. He looked up momentarily and saw the boy's hands brush against his green cast, then glanced down at his own metal appendage.

"I'll be fine."

**Author's Note:**

Hopefully this will pick up for some of you and the addition of a little boy character will not turn you off from the story. They won't be interacting for much longer, and pretty soon we'll be getting to the nitty gritty of the story, I just wanted to kinda 'set the stage' for what was to come later on. Comments, reviews, and suggestions are welcome! Ciao!

-AC


	2. Closure

Closure

The phone rang downstairs, over and over, and was answered on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Matty. I'm just calling to check up on you," came the voice. The boy nodded as if his mother could see him. "I'm okay. Boxes an' me are watching Spongebob," he replied. His mother laughed on the other end. "Your cast isn't pinching or hurting? Did you eat something?"

"Nope-"

Boxes began barking suddenly and a string of expletives loudly erupted from upstairs. "Matty, what was that?" Matty either ignored his mother's urgent, worried tone or just didn't process it at all. "Boxes! Boxes, no!" he called, keeping the phone to his ear as he trotted from the kitchen up the stairs. "Matty, what's going on? Who's there? Is someone in the house?" his mother was shrilling. The barking was loud and persistent as Matty dragged the dog out of the steaming bathroom by the collar and closed the door behind him with an apology. "You're a bad dog, Boxes."

"Matty, please answer the phone," his mother cried. "Is someone in the house with you?" Matty sat on the steps and nodded again. "Yeah, there was this guy in our backyard an' he was bleeding so I let him in so we could put Band-Aids on him. He smelled really gross though, so he was taking a shower in my bathroom." On the other end of the line, though he couldn't see it, his mother was sitting at her desk, mouth agape, pale and frozen as if she had been made of ice. "Matty, stay in your room. I'm coming home right now. Don't come out for any reason, just take Boxes and stay. In. Your. Room. Do you hear me?"

Matty sighed.

"Matty, I mean it."

"Okaaay, mom," he exhaled in one long breath. "I love you too. Bye." He hung up the phone and nudged the yellow lab down the hall. "C'mon, Boxes. Looks like we have to play hospital in my room today."

The Soldier stood dripping wet yet again on the bathroom mat, grabbing one of the towels the boy had left for him. He would be lying if he said that the warm water running down his aching body wasn't a godsend in disguise. He threw the towel over his head and mussed it across his hair briefly before swiping it across the rest of him, all in silence, and tense posture.

It all crumbled when he suddenly leaned heavily against the countertop, draping the towel over his shoulder, his flesh one. He reached up with his human hand and found the point where man met machinery and massaged gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. He hadn't noticed the dull throb of pain in his shoulder since the helicarrier, and had been grateful for the hot water from the shower that erased it momentarily. Now that he was drying, the pain was slowly returning with the rest of his senses; the sound of pattering water had silenced the thoughts in his head while he stood, mostly stock still, under the thrum of water. '_Get a grip. You can't lose yourself now; you've got a mission for fuck's sake-'_

With a pang of realization, the Soldier realized that that was wrong. There was no mission. Not anymore. Something in his mind entertained the thought that Hydra had pretty much run itself into the ground by the time the chip the Captain had was plugged into the helicarrier's computer-the Soldier didn't even know he possessed intuition anymore. Yes, he could process the sensation of being watched and had enough smarts and training to think ahead, but he had never needed intuition. If anything unexpected or foreseen arose, he would blow right through it with a bullet from his gun. It had become an extinct method of thought, and the sudden use of it now was a bit startling. '_You don't know that. Hydra's still out there-you can't kill a monster with many heads,' _said the voice in his head_. "'In a minute now, they'll come barging in, dragging you back to that icy hellhole, punishing you for your failure-'_

The sharp sound of cracking jarred the Soldier out of his deafeningly noisy internal conflict and his head snapped up. He had pushed away from the counter then, easily tightening into a defensive position, his hands gesturing as though he held a knife in them. His eyes glued themselves to the bathroom door, hard and devoid of emotion, ready for anyone who might come rushing through it. When silence filled his ears for more than enough time needed for someone to attack him from the other side of the door, he slowly relaxed, straightening and glanced at the countertop. Where he had been leaning, there were finger-shaped marks in the granite, long, splintery cracks branching from each indent in the stone. The Soldier slowly blinked in annoyance and brought his metal hand to his face. He must've been so lost in thought that he didn't even realize that he had been gripping the sink like a vice. He balled it into a fist gradually, furrowing his brow when he noticed that the fingers wouldn't curl all the way into the palm and the thumb didn't even move at all. He tried a second time, strain visible on his features as he attempted to make a fist. The digits curled halfway and stopped.

Annoyance, one of the few emotions the Soldier was familiar with since the bridge and the sudden uninvited burst of recurring memories, bubbled through his veins and audibly growled under his breath as his mechanical arm failed to do as it was told. Annoyance and some other thing that made his stomach churn in a sickening way at the sight of his fritzing appending, but the Soldier wasn't quite sure what it was. He didn't like it.

A knock on the door had him diving back into attack position, despite his halfway functioning arm, and all traces of his earlier emotions wiped away to present a smooth, cold slate. "Hey, mister, are you dry? We should put the Band-Aids on soon," came the boy's voice. "My _mom's_ on her way home." At first, the Soldier didn't recognize the tone or the voice on the other side of the door and had flown towards it at near blinding speed, intending to rip the door off its hinges and attack with brutal strength, but something clicked in his head.

It was just that kid. The tiny Steve with the green cast. Friendly.

The Soldier shook his head roughly and again relaxed his taut stance. "Y-yeah," he replied, then repeated with more force and volume after he had regained himself, "Yeah."

"I left some of dad's clothes outside. You can wear those if you want," said the boy, his voice growing softer and softer. He must've gone. The Soldier took his absence as a moment to open the door and grab the clothes the boy had left for him, shutting the door roughly again behind him. It was a simple pair of loose sweatpants, loose even for the Soldier-the kid's father must've been huge-a plain white t-shirt and a navy blue jacket. The Soldier dressed, fiddling for a moment with the pants ties as he struggled to get them to stay on his hips, and cast a glance at his discarded black clothes. He wasn't used to the looseness of the civilian clothes; they made him feel vulnerable and naked, almost as if he was being sent out to battle with no weapons or armor.

After a moment of thought, the Soldier strapped the knives from his uniform to his legs underneath the sweatpants, a minor comfort in his situation. He grabbed his clothes and wandered out of the bathroom, scanning for the boy in the hall. He padded down the carpeted hallway barefooted, away from the stairs, glancing into rooms as he passed them. One of them was a completely white bedroom, with stark white sheets spread neatly across a bed, blinding white carpeting and curtains allowing afternoon sunlight to brighten the room to near scalding levels. The guest room, maybe. The next room was painted deep blue, with a large bed in the center, a few pieces of furniture consisting of a dresser, two bedside tables, and an entertainment center. It was plain and well-kept, having a sort of military stiffness about it. The Soldier wondered briefly if the parents were military personnel, and was suddenly greeted with an unusually chipper voice. "Hey! Come in here!"

The boy was standing in the doorway of a room at the end of the hall, waving the Soldier over, a silly grin on his freckled face. "My mom said we have to stay in my room til she gets home, so we have to put the Band-Aids on in there," he was saying. The boy's room was an explosion of color; reds, blues, whites and yellows, and speckled with toys and books all over the floor and on the surface of every available piece of furniture. Boxes the dog lay curled contentedly on a sun warmed patch of the floor, glancing up when the Soldier entered the room. Posters were pinned to the walls, and it and the bed sheets, and nearly all of the toys bore the same face that wormed its way through his memories and seemed to be burned into the backs of his eyes since the bridge.

Captain America was inescapable it seemed. Irony was cruel in the way that even after walking and walking to escape the face that haunted his thoughts, he would wander into a room practically branded with it. The boy waved the Soldier over to his tiny bed, climbing up onto it and rummaging through the plastic bin he'd brought from the bathroom. The mattress dipped as the Soldier stiffly deposited his weight onto it. He briefly surveyed the room, staring all around from wall to wall as if searching it for some threat to come jumping out from the closet door or under the bed or through the window. "Looking for someone?" asked the boy, tugging on the Soldier's jacket. The Soldier tensed immediately, snapping around to glare at the sudden movement, then cast his gaze to his feet, almost in apology. "No."

The boy nodded and tugged at the Soldier's sleeve again as gesture for him to shrug his shoulders out of the jacket. He squeezed a small amount of an antibacterial ointment on the tip of a cotton Q-tip and poked at a scratch on the Soldier's right arm. "You should find Captain America," said the boy suddenly. The Soldier tensed visibly, but didn't direct his gaze to the boy, preferring to keep it glued to the floor. "Why do you say that?" It didn't sound like a question at all-more like a statement, deadpan and quiet. "Because you two are friends."

The Soldier blinked. _'Because we're friends!'_

'_I've known you all your life!'_

'_I'm not gonna fight you. I'm with you til the end of the line.'_

The pangs of a headache were beginning to prickle behind the Soldier's eyes as what appeared to be the trigger words sent a wave of fresh memories and pain coursing through him. "You don't know that," he forced out through half-clenched teeth. "You are! Really! Look," the boy finished applying the Band-Aid to the Soldier's arm and hopped down from the bed, padding over to his bookcase. He reached up to the top and plucked down a pamphlet from the top of it, carrying it with him back to the bed, leafing through it and settling on a page. "Here," he said. He pointed at a photo of another picture that looked to be located in some museum. The Soldier recognized the face in the portrait as his own, but he didn't know at what time it had been taken. He knew who it was, but he didn't _know_ who it was. He didn't know those lively blue eyes that held a certain spark, or the slight hint of a proud smile on those upturned lips. He didn't know who that warm skin that hadn't seen the harsh, unforgiving nature of the cryotube belonged to. The boy leaned forward a bit, looking up into the face of the Winter Soldier, past the long brown hair that curtained his face, and said softly, "That's you, isn't it? My mom took me to the Smithsonian a few months ago and we went to the Captain America exhibit, that's where I got this from. You and Captain America are friends. Says so on your exhibit-thingy. You're supposed to be dead too, but you're here. If I was gone for a really long time, I would want to go see my friends. That's what my dad does too, after he comes back home from his tours. He's a soldier, too, like you. Captain; he has to go away sometimes...I want to be a soldier just like him too, an' Captain America."

'_What do you want to to be when you grow up, Bucky?' Steve asked, looking up at the slightly taller not-Soldier. The not-Soldier never missed a beat; he knew the answer to this question, had known for too long a time. He was bristling with pride as he replied, "I wanna be a soldier, just like my dad. I'll be the best soldier America's ever had." He smiled brightly, as widely as his ten-year-old face would allow and puffed out his chest. "What about you, Steve?" Steve glanced at the floor, inspecting the living room carpet. He picked with it, pinching the fabric between his forefinger and thumb, and the not-Soldier could see the gears turning in his little blonde head. He couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment and dread from his chest when those blue eyes redirected towards him and Steve said, "I want to be a soldier too." A smile slowly spread across his face as his confidence seemed to grow. "I want to be a soldier too, Bucky. We'll both be the best soldier's ever, right?" The not-Soldier forced a smile, past the pang of dread that had appeared in his heart. "Yeah, Steve. Yeah." _

The Soldier stared at the photo for a moment, taking in the boy's words at the same time. "Where did you say you saw this?" he asked finally. "The Smithsonian downtown. There's a whole wing just for Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Cool, huh? Maybe after you costume party, you could go and check it out," replied the boy with a grin. The Soldier sat still in thought, wondering what he would do with all these thoughts that he was failing to suppress, what this growing curiosity in his chest meant. If he went to this thing, would the memories finally thin out? Would he find out who he really was? Who the Captain was, why he was so hell-bent on trying to get through to the Soldier? He wondered if this was what closure was.

The boy just continued to stick Band-Aids to him.

"Matty? Matty, I'm home!"

The boy's head jerked towards the door and he jumped off of the bed. "That's my mom," he said, opening his bedroom door. Boxes stood and bolted through it, down the stairs at the sound of a new voice. The Soldier was already shrugging into the jacket and grabbing his clothes, moving as swiftly as he was silent. He knew that if he stayed around long enough and was caught by the boy's mother, she would most certainly call the police, which was the last thing he needed. He went to the window and used his left arm to wrench it open, willing the fingers to cooperate enough to grab hold of it and actually pull the thing open enough for him to slip through onto the roof. The strength of the arm had not been done away with, thankfully, and he was able to pull it fully open. He paused momentarily, knowing that precious escape seconds were fleeting; he could already hear the footsteps thundering up the stairs. He reached over and snatched the pamphlet up from the bed.

Not a second too late, Matty ducked back into the room, his mother in tow and worrying over him with a vigor. "Yeah, it was him!" he was saying excitedly. "He's-"

He was greeted by nothing but silence when he turned back to the bed, his smile faltering momentarily as he realized that the Soldier was gone. He padded towards the window, blocking out his mother's voice as he gazed down the street. He could just barely see him now, but he smiled as he watched the Soldier run down the sidewalk and disappear around the corner.


	3. Nightmares

Nightmares

"_I'm telling you, man, I really do think you like getting your ass handed to you."_

_Steve's head shot up at the sound of the familiar voice, an instant sheepish smile spreading across his bruised face. "You're a punk, Steve," Bucky said sashaying into the room. Steve grinned and shook his head. "Jerk." Bucky stopped by the hospital bed and ruffled his blonde friend's hair. "But I'm your jerk." Steve swiped at his hands, and gestured to one of the chairs leaned against the wall. "Sit for a while. You know I don't like it when people hover over me." Bucky obeyed, dragging the folding chair to Steve's bedside and dropping into it heavily. It was then that Steve noticed that the smile had slipped from his face, and Bucky looked him up and down with an unmistakable glint of guilt in his eyes. _

_Steve glanced down at his arms and grimaced at the bruised and scarred knuckles, blue and purple with the reminder of what had happened in that alley earlier. He didn't need to imagine what his face only looked like, he could feel it. His lip was split, bruises of all different colors along his cheekbones, a gash that had somehow appeared above his left eye and yet another bruise underneath that that had nearly swollen his eye shut. And that didn't even complete the list of ailments that lurked beneath his hospital gown, creeping up his chest and snaking around his ribs. _

_Steve knew what Bucky was going to say before he even opened his mouth. "Buck, no. Don't blame yourself; this wasn't your fault." Bucky exhaled heavily. "I could've helped, could've done something. I've always been there for you, but this time…when you needed me most, I was nowhere to be seen. Now here you are, beaten to shit, and all I can do is sit beside you, twiddling my thumbs and hoping you get better." Steve gave a light laugh. "I'm not dying, Buck. Calm down. I've been beaten up before, you know that."_

"_But what if you were?" Bucky pressed, his eyes full of distress. "What if there was a day when these guys don't just want to beat you to a bloody pulp, what if they-" he stopped abruptly, running his hands over his face. He couldn't say it, not if it was directed towards Steve. He didn't even want to think about it. Steve watched him with a frown. He knew that Bucky had taken up the position of being his 'guardian' of sorts; he'd been watching the blonde's back since they were little and had always been there for him. Steve couldn't even remember a time when Bucky hadn't been in shouting distance. He'd always been nearby, if not right by his side, and both boys knew that that was where he belonged. So Steve could understand the remorse that was rolling off of the brunette in waves at his failure to be there to save him. _

"_You can't blame yourself," Steve said rather firmly. "I don't. You know you can't keep hauling my scrawny ass out of every scrap I find myself in, and I don't expect you to." He needed Bucky to understand that, as well as himself. He couldn't keep depending on Bucky to save him; the military uniform Bucky wore was a gloomy, sepia-toned reminder of that. "I could've saved you," Bucky sighed, leaning his arms on his knees. "I don't need you to save me," the words rocketing out of Steve's mouth before he could even make sense of what he was saying. "I need you to stand beside me while I save myself." He pursed his lips as he took in Bucky's shocked, wide-eyed face. _

"_And I don't mean that literally. I don't need you putting some kind of tracking device on me, monitoring my movements and stuff," added the blonde with a gentle chuckle. "I don't want to wake up and find you've glued yourself to my hip tomorrow, either." Bucky stared at him for a moment, then snorted out a laugh. "I might have to if you keep sticking your nose in other people's business. Dumb kid." Steve lightheartedly punched Bucky's shoulder, making him laugh even more. "Bring it in, chucklehead. I know you've probably got places to be, dames to sweep off their feet; I won't keep you long," Steve said between giggles. He wrapped his arms around Bucky's shoulders, where the latter embraced him under his arms. _

_Steve's brow furrowed in sudden confusion and he pulled away. "What's wrong?" Bucky asked, looking worried. Steve gripped Bucky's left shoulder, running his fingers over the whole arm, feeling for any sign of muscle and tissue, any of the warmth that usually emanated from his friend's body. There was nothing but cold, solid…stuff. "Bucky…what is that?" _

_Quick as a flash, Steve found himself gasping for air, desperate for his throat to work under the vice-like grip of cold metal that pressed around his neck. "B-bucky!" Bucky didn't respond, glaring at him that eyes that Steve didn't recognize. They were cold, empty and nothing like the warm, laughing ones that Steve had grown comfortable with over the years. Slowly, not-Bucky reached up towards his shoulder, the one that was holding Steve, and dug his fingers into his sleeve. He yanked, an awful sound of cloth ripping and tearing echoing throughout the room. _

_Metal, silver and glinting in the natural sunlight that poured through the windows like cruel irony, was what was under the sleeve. Metal forged in the shape of an arm, embellished only with a red star that seemed to drip the color down the 'muscle'. Steve screamed, though from the hand gripped around his throat, it sounded more like a hoarse cry. Dark needles pinned at the edges of his vision. He couldn't believe it: Bucky was going to squeeze the life out of him. His best friend that he knew, he knew, would never do anything to hurt him. This was not Bucky. This was not Bucky. What had they done with __his__ Bucky? Terror washed over him. He was going to be strangled to death by some stranger who looked and sounded like his best friend._

_He would've cried if he wasn't so close to the brink of unconsciousness, when Bucky's voice-sounded so much like Bucky, too much like Bucky, that it hurt-growled, "If anyone is going to kill you, it'll be me."_

Steve woke with a start, jerking himself awake, which he instantly regretted when his entire body screamed at him in protest. He grimaced, sucking in a breath as he settled back into his pillows. Pillows? He glanced around, his eyes still half-closed with drug-induced sleep. The room was staunch white, smelling heavily of cleaning products. Sunlight poured in from somewhere to his left, and a peck of colors waved out of the corner of his eye from the right. Turning his head slightly, he realized that flowers had been left for him, sitting in a red glass vase. It was a pleasant surprise as he pieced together his whereabouts. A hospital, he groaned inwardly. Steve hated hospitals. Hated the sterile scents, the occasional sounds of pain and despair that echoed through the halls, the feeling of helplessness.

"Steve."

Steve turned his head to the left at the sudden voice. He squinted his eyes at the familiar face. "Sam?" Sam grinned and nodded. "In the flesh. How are you feeling? You looked like you were in pain when you were asleep a few minutes ago," he asked. Steve closed his eyes and hummed quietly. "Sore all over. Feels like I got hit by a brick wall. Or a truck." Sam offered him another smile. "Well, you're close. A truck and the thing that hit you are both made out of metal." Steve opened his eyes and glanced at Sam. "Did you see him? How did I get here?" Sam leaned his head in one hand, propping his elbow on the chair's armrest. "No," he said, knowing exactly who Steve was talking about. "No one saw him. We saw you on the banks of the Potomac, but we all assumed you managed to swim there and then passed out. You were in pretty bad shape. It wasn't until way after we shipped you off to the hospital that we saw the footprints leaving in the opposite direction. You just filled in the missing pieces, but I think we already had our suspicions of who it might've been."

Steve sank back into his pillows, disappointment apparent in his blue eyes. "Oh." Sam watched him, a frown on his face. "You're worried about him," he said quietly, not really a question, more like a statement, and he didn't sound very happy about it. Steve met Sam's eye and noted the knowing look that graced them. "He's not himself, Sam," he said quietly. "Not for seventy years, no," the man replied. Steve ignored the quip and continued. "I saw it on the helicarrier. He's not sure anymore. He…remembered me. At least remembered me enough to not waste me. He faltered, like he was struggling with himself. I think he's trying to fight against his programming."

Sam touched Steve's shoulder. "Steve, I know you're excited, but…just don't get your hopes up. I mean, we don't even know where he is." Steve knew Sam was right, as usual. He didn't know where Bucky was, or if he was okay, where he was going, what had happened to him after the helicarrier. He didn't even know where to start looking for Bucky. It burned at him, nagged at his thoughts. If it weren't for the drugs they'd pumped him full of, he wouldn't have been able to sleep at all. "Then I'll look for him," Steve said. Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "With what leads?"

Steve rolled his eyes at Sam's ability to knock his plans down a few notches. "I don't know, Sam. I just…" He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Silence ensued for a while and Steve thought that Sam had gone, until he heard, "Just get some rest, Cap. We can figure this out later, alright? We just need you at one hundred percent right now." Steve didn't open his eyes in acknowledgement. He felt Sam shake his shoulder in reassurance and comfort, the shifting of a body in the chair by his bedside and fleeting footsteps as he retreated from the room.

He didn't even realize that he'd fallen asleep until he woke with another start after yet another nightmare.

_Steve allowed himself to be led away under the arm of Bucky, struggling to keep up with his long strides as they left the alley. "You're ridiculous, Steve. What did you get yourself into now?" he murmured to with a skyward glance. "That guy was causing a stir in the theater. About the war footage they play before the movie; it was really disrespectful, y'know? So I just thought I'd speak up-"_

"_And here we are. I swear Steve, what would you do without me? At this rate, I'll have to stay and fight the wars you're starting here instead of Hitler," Bucky said. Steve nearly tripped, but quickly steadied himself. "I'll be fine. Your country needs you. Besides, I was just trying to help. After all that those soldiers have done for us, you would think he would be a little more respectful. I don't see him stickin' his neck out for anybody." Bucky paused so suddenly that Steve would've tripped again had Bucky not had such a firm grip on his shoulders. "Y'know, you little scrap, if you had a coupla pounds on you, maybe a foot or two, you'd be the perfect soldier."_

_Steve raised an eyebrow and looked up at him. "I am," he said. Bucky still held his gaze skyward with a grin. "Maybe in the future." A loud honk from behind the two made Steve flinch in surprise and he turned back. The alley had become a crowded street, congested with cars and busy people, buildings standing tall all around him, lit up with colorful lights and signs, enormous screens glaring down at him with fluorescent light. Steve whirled around looking for Bucky, startled by the new setting. Every face that passed looked unfamiliar, and Bucky was nowhere to be found. "Bucky?" he shouted into the fray. His white t-shirt seemed to constrict him in his panic, and he realized that this scene felt very familiar. "Bucky, where'd you go?"_

_Another honk snapped him out of his trance. He turned to the car behind him and heard the driver scream from his window. "Will you get the fuck out of the way, dude? You're holding up traffic!" There was so much noise. Car horns, people's voices, the high-pitched scream-like sound of panic in his head. How could Bucky just be gone like that? He had been right there next to him! Fear froze him in place. He'd woken up in a new place, a new world that had left him behind, didn't know anyone or anything, left alone without his closest friend, the person who knew him best. It didn't help that that same person would pop up out of the blue and try to murder him in a year or so._

Steve's blue eyes snapped open and stared into the ceiling as he tried to clear his brain from yet another nightmare. He sighed and kneaded his palms into his eyes, mumbling, "This is too much."

"'Nother nightmare?"

Steve turned his head to his bedside and found a familiar redhead sitting in the chair that Sam had once occupied. "Tasha? What're you doing here?" Natasha sat cross-legged in the chair with regal gracefulness, chewing politely on a piece of gum as she watched him carefully. "Just dropping by. I'm allowed to check up on you, aren't I?"

"Just thought you were supposed to be looking for a cover," Steve said. "Haven't found one yet. Do you, uh, want to talk about that dream you were having?" she shrugged. Steve knew he couldn't hide anything from her; she was already too good at hiding everything from anyone else. "They're not really dreams. They're memories turned nightmares. Every time I dream them, they begin as memories from when we were the way we used to be, then something goes wrong and they turn into nightmares. It's like a constant reminder when I close my eyes that we've changed." He pauses and sighs. "Both of us."

Natasha knew who he was talking about, but she asked anyway. "'We'?" Steve glances at her, then returns his gaze to the ceiling. "Bu-the Winter Soldier," he replies. It sounds strange on his tongue, foreign and threatening, not matching up with Bucky's personality at all. Natasha frowned, searching for the right words to say. "You can skip the lecture," Steve said. "Sam already came by and said his two cents about the whole ordeal."

"But you aren't listening," Natasha said, prompting Steve to turn his head and look at her. "I bet he's already told you that this isn't the same man you knew. The Soldier-Bucky-he can't be approached as your old friend; he's still Hydra's number one asset and unfortunately that means we have to treat him like it. Still, you want to go after him, don't you?" She wasn't asking. She knew what was going on his head. Steve sheepishly didn't respond. Again, he'd been caught. Natasha shook her head with a tiny smile. "You're very persistent, Cap. Hardheaded and stubborn, I'm sure."

"You won't…do anything to him just yet, will you?" Steve asked. Natasha sighed. "We don't even have him, Steve; I doubt we could do anything. We've lost him again. Nothing's changed, he's still a ghost. Now that Hydra's in disarray, however, we might have a better chance of picking through the rubble and finding something-anything-on the guy, but-" She held up one finger as if to silence Steve and raised an eyebrow, "I am not saying that we will be able to find him or even track him. You have to remember that he's slipping. His programming's failing and he's going haywire. He's probably out there just as confused and unsure of what to do now as you were when we found you." Steve glanced up at her words, wincing when she described Bu-the Soldier-as if he were a damaged piece of machinery. "It will take a while is all I'm saying. Got it? Don't over excite yourself." Natasha looked at him with expectant eyes, awash with concern. Steve realized that this was probably the first time he'd seen Natasha this open with her emotions. She'd been opening up more in the past week, and now he could clearly understand that, even though she took trust seriously and only gave it to a select few, only those she held close would ever be given her deepest, truest emotions. She was only trying to lookout for the few people she might let in.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I get it. You sure you can divulge this kind of information to me, Tasha? None of that 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you' jazz?" Natasha smiled. "Nah. I trust you. Fury trusts you. And besides, I know you're just going to go hunting for him the minute they let you out of this bed, if not sooner. May as well give you something to do other than putz around a retirement home all day." Steve gave her a look, and she laughed. "Ha ha, Tasha. Maybe you could find a cover as a comedian." She lightly punched Steve's arm. "You first, Cap. But really, this is your responsibility now. This is your friend, your mission; but don't let it consume you. I don't want to watch you lose your mind over this thing." She said it as though she had seen the very same instance happen before, and Steve didn't doubt that she had. He nodded. "I won't," he reassured her.

Natasha smiled softly, seeming satisfied with his answer. "Alright. Get some sleep, old man." Amid Steve's grunts of protest to the moniker, she stood and kissed him on the forehead. In another life, at another time, he might've seen that as a display of affectionate romance, but he knew Natasha. She wanted nothing to do with that sort of thing and would sooner punch a guy out than kiss him; he took it as another display of concern.

Steve settled back into his pillows and watched her go through half-lidded eyes. He wouldn't have known that she was even gone had he not been awake; she moved so silently, like a ghost. He sighed and turned his head enough to see the window at the head of his bed, wondering where the other ghost in his life was going.


	4. Break

Break

The memories came less jumbled now, for which, the Soldier was grateful for. It meant that he could finally focus, see clearly without blinking back the incoming headaches, and, if the memory was particularly fresh and jarring, the salty, terrified tears that came with them. That was not to say that the nightmares had come to a trickle as well; they still plagued what little sleep he could manage in during the day.

He normally slept upright, gun in hand. Not the idealist position for sleeping, but it would do. He needed to be ready to defend himself if he was attacked by Hydra or otherwise. It had nearly been four months since the fall of the Helicarrier, the implosion of S.H.I.E.L.D, and the disarray of Hydra, and the Soldier had made good time in escaping D.C. and moving on…sort of.

He hadn't seen the Captain since he's pulled him from the Potomac, or dropped by the Smithsonian to see if he could unearth anything about who that blonde man from the bridge was or who he was said to be once. From what he could tell, they were supposed to have been friends, brothers-in-arms during the Second World War, and just brothers in general. When the Soldier had walked up to his own exhibit and seen his ghostly image on the glass panel, he felt as though he was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger. He wasn't sure of who James Buchannan Barnes was, and he sure as hell didn't know 'Bucky', but something about the way it rolled off of the Captain's tongue each time they'd run into each other was familiar, almost programmed. And the Soldier knew a lot about programmed responses.

Their distance apart had been what had put a stopper on the memories, and the Soldier wasn't really in much of a hurry to have it all come rushing back in a painful flood by visiting the Captain, much as he wanted to ask him what he knew about the Soldier's past life. Unsure of what to do-he'd haunted the Smithsonian for nearly three weeks in hopes of drudging up something before he'd given up-he'd found his own way to Europe, revenge as resolve settling in his mind and filming his eyes with a thick shade of red. If Hydra could grow back as many heads as he cut off, then he would just have to stab the heart, and he would revel in its bloodshed.

Now in Berlin, he had busied himself with searing the stumps, taking out each base that he could dig up from his limited memory; the first base had been a snap and the easiest to find, nearby in a vault in the city, but it hadn't been as fruitful as he had been hoping, only managing to get a few coordinates on the other numerous bases that speckled the globe. Oh, yeah; Hydra was many, but numbers meant very little the Soldier. He was smarter, faster and stronger than any of the goons that they could dish out and he was certain that their scientists wouldn't put up much of a fight if it came down to it.

The Soldier stood under the pool of yellow lamplight on the sidewalk, his cap pulled low on his head as he watched the silent streets and the starry sky. It was night now, cool and quiet, the perfect time to storm the Hydra base that he'd tracked to Berlin. Ghostly wisps of stray clouds swirled through the sky, passing over the moon akin to a typical horror movie setting, but the Soldier didn't know anything about that. He was more focused on the stars.

_He loved stars. _

_He glanced over at Steve, who had quieted a considerable bit since they'd come up to the roof. The blonde had fought him tooth and nail about coming up to the roof of their apartment building and just relaxing, really only wanting to just crawl into bed and forget about his third failed attempt at getting into the army. "Not now, Bucky. I just…I really want to just go to bed. I'm not really in the mood." Bucky had sighed and grabbed the blanket he'd rolled up to spread over the stiff, flat concrete roof, making like he was just going to be a good boy and drop the subject and go alone. Steve shrugged his apologies, murmuring, "Sorry. Maybe another-"_

_Bucky suddenly swooped underneath him, hoisting him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry with one arm and mostly maneuvered his way out of the apartment and up to the roof with his foot and the arm that held the blanket, ignoring Steve's protests the entire way. "Bucky, put me down now!" Bucky shook his head. "Sorry, I can't hear you. C'mon, man. It'll be fun. Maybe you'll actually relax for once; you're too stoic for such a young guy. The ladies don't like a stick-in-the-mud, y'know." Steve scoffed, digging his elbow into Bucky's shoulder as he propped his chin in his hand, having given up on trying to escape. "Ladies don't like guys who could be thrown over their best friend's shoulders like they weigh nothing." Bucky kicked open the door at the end of the stairwell, and walked out into the night air, breathing in deep through his nostrils. A gentle breeze caught his dark hair and brushed against his cheeks. _

_Perfect for stargazing._

"_Isn't this amazing?" he said, spinning ever so slowly, still aware of Steve over his shoulder as the blonde flicked the back of his head. "Unless you want me to be sick all over your shoulder, I'd suggest you stop spinning and put me down," Steve said frankly, a tinge of a warning in his voice. Bucky rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright." He leaned down at the waist and waited for Steve's feet to touch down the roof before he let him go completely. Steve smoothed down his shirt and folded his arms over his chest. "So you got me up here. Now what?" Bucky nodded towards the edge of the roof and made sure that Steve followed after him. He unrolled the blanket and laid it flat over the roof, smoothing out any wrinkles and patted the space next to him as he spread himself over the blanket to get comfortable. When Steve joined him, sitting next to him and leaning back on his hands-Bucky rolled his eyes and smirked, to which Steve shrugged and said, "What?" as if he were innocent-Bucky simply turned his eyes to the sky and told him, "Relax and enjoy the show."_

_The black night sky was ablaze with silver stars, splashed like paint droplets across a canvas, and the moon shining like a hook-shaped lantern overhead. The city below was speckled with yellow lights and pinks and reds and blues and white, greens and oranges like polka-dots over the skyline, all neon lights and beacons to the night life that had chosen something more hot-blooded to engage in that night. The soft chatter of a car engine being revved nearly three streets over, the laughter of a group of friends walking home from the dance parlors, and the dull tune of Maxine Sullivan carrying on through someone's window played through the night and added some atmosphere to the tiny world that Steve and Bucky had created on top of the roof together. _

_Bucky exhaled, in awe of the sky above, and happened to glance over at Steve. Steve had drawn his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, looking for all the world like a child who had just witnessed real magic, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Though, the sight of him shivering snapped Bucky out of whatever trance he had been in. He rolled off of the blanket, and wrapped his half of it around Steve as much as he could, attracting the blonde's attention. "Thanks," he said quietly, ducking his head a little. Bucky even wondered if he'd known that he was shaking, having been so caught up in the stars. "Told you it was amazing." Steve smirked a bit and shook his head. "You were right." He continued to stare into the sky as Bucky settled back again beside him. "Do you know any constellations?" Bucky nodded. "Sure."_

"_Could you show them to me?"_

_Bucky glanced at him, a smile budding on his lips. "Sure." He pointed up at a small cluster of diamonds against the sky. "See that tiny one there? That one's the Little Dipper; everyone knows that one. If you get lost at night, always look for that one because it always points north. Then that one next to it, the one that looks like a big version of it with a wavy tail, that's Dragon…"_

The Soldier pinched the bridge of his nose, immediately ducking his head and averting his eyes from the sky. He reached out with his left arm, grasping the lamp post next to him as best he could with his damaged digits and steadied himself. The memory had been a shock, sending a fresh wave of pain over him. He hadn't had one in months and this one had left him suddenly breathless and shaking, eyes screwed shut as he tried desperately to pull himself together. He didn't have all night to do so, however. A shriek diverted his attention from his own suddenly scrambled brains. Not only had he been gripping the lamp post like a lifeline and had accidently crumpled it like an aluminum can, but he'd left himself completely vulnerable and open for attack. But this was a scream. From someone else. Someone was in distress, their shriek echoing from an unlit alley just down the street. Something tickled in the back of his mind, urging him towards the alley, a memory that threatened to tear its way through his head. He staggered down the street towards the alley, reaching into the sheath strapped to his leg for the knife he'd kept there. He pushed himself against the wall, peering down the alley with the knife in his hand at the ready-in his right hand since the fingers of his robotic left had not gotten any better at grasping things fully since the storming of the vault base-and tried to fight the feeling that looking down alleys for _something_-he had no idea for _who_ or _what_-was familiar to him in some way.

A woman was screaming for help, trying desperately to fend off her attackers, two men in dark clothes, who had her cornered in the far end of the alley. She clutched her purse to her chest as best she could, as if it were a shield from the men as they tried to wrench it from her. Suddenly, the purse went flying from her hands and she was lifted into the air from behind, thrown to the ground like a bag of flour. The Soldier furrowed his brow from where he stood. He knew, knew in his bones and with every fiber of his being (perhaps a reminiscent of his past life?) that this was wrong. The woman was screaming, over and over in German, '_no, no, no!_' The Soldier didn't even realize that he was growling, his lips curled in a snarl, and the sound-like an animal-echoing through the alley walls as he stalked through the shadows and immediately grabbed the first man's shoulder, spun him around and slipped the knife across his throat as easily as if through butter. Blood sprayed against his face, splattering against his unshaven jaw. The second man screamed, scrambling away from and the man with the metal arm who had angled himself so that he stood between the trembling woman and himself. He got to his feet and ran as fast as he could, but the Soldier was quicker.

The man went down as a sharp, piercing pain flourished through his back between his shoulder blades. The Soldier strode over to the man, planting his foot roughly against the small of his back and wrenched the knife out, not even batting an eye at the scraping noise of metal against bone or the anguished screams beneath his feet. "_Bitte! Bitte! Tu mir nicht weh!_"

It was a delay in his movements, nothing more, but the Soldier paused. He counted this as the second time he'd hesitated during the kill. But that plea, he'd heard it before, with a voice that had long gone unused; his own. A whisper. A quiet whimper before his throat quit. '_Bitte…nicht mehr…_' From somewhere, the scent of burned flesh, the crackling smell of electricity, and the shiver of cold sweat all attacked the Soldier from out of nowhere. He wasn't sure if this was a memory or not, he could only sit crouched over the bleeding man, his brow furrowed in confusion at the scents and sensations that ravaged him so suddenly, arm drawn back with the knife in hand, poised to slit his throat. "Bitte…"

The Soldier blinked, blinking back the memories of something foul, and his face instantly contorted into a terrible mix of agony, rage, both at himself it seemed and at someone else entirely, and desperation. He slashed down, not with the knife, with his knuckles. Blood spurted from the man's mouth and nose, staining the Soldier's white knuckles, over and over with each punch that the Soldier saw fit to deliver. This behavior was unusual. He took care to get the job done the first time with as little energy and time as he could manage-he was an assassin, damn it! But now, all that he could seem to accomplish was beat this man into a bloody, unconscious pulp, aware that he had started grunting with each blow. To silence himself, he bit his lower lip, clamping down so hard that he drew blood. He'd always been told to be quiet, silent, whether it be on the mission or in the dark catacombs of a lab, deep below the earth.

Suddenly, a copious amount of red splashed into his field of vision. He froze, startled by the change in environment and immediately did a mental check for any injuries he might have sustained while in his rage. He hadn't been paying attention at all; only wanted to make this man hurt, if only a fraction of what had been done to him, let his pleas befall deaf ears like so many of his had before, be helpless to stop it after they'd broken him. It wasn't fair.

The Soldier dropped his arm, breathing laboriously, unsure of how he'd crumbled like this. The knife; it had slipped in his blood slicked fingers when he had gone to land a punch to the man's jaw. His throat was slashed wide open, the cut so deep that the slippery red of muscle was visible even in the dull light from the stars and hook-shaped moon above. He ambled away from the dead man, slumping against the wall, hugging his right arm to his chest and staring with wide eyes into the night. He didn't even hear the woman approaching, saw movement out of his peripheral vision, but failed to acknowledge her. She entered his field of vision, reaching out to touch his shoulders, but drawing her hands back at the last minute. Her voice sounded a thousand miles away and muffled. "_Herr, herr! Danke, Vielen Dank! Geht es dir gut?_" The Soldier desperately tried to control himself. He'd gone way out of line. Stepping out of line usually meant punishment. "_Herr, sie sind mit einer Panikattacke sind_?" the woman said, still kneeling in front of him.

The Soldier's face slowly dissolved into less of a panicky mess and more into an annoyed mask. It was all that he could muster then, leaning over slowly to wipe the blade of his knife on the dead man's dark pants before sheathing it. "_Herr_?" the woman called one last time. The Soldier stood, bracing himself against the wall as he did so and retreated from the alley, leaving the woman behind with a warning muttered under his breath, "_Sie sollten gehen_." He needed to heed his own advice. He disappeared down the street, the scent of blood trailing after him like the scent of perfume. His right arm hung limp by his side, numb like the rest of him, save for his metal arm. It pinched where skin met machinery, and as he tried to move the fingers, he found that he couldn't even manage that. A twitch. A quirk of the thumb. Nothing. He passed a shop window along the sidewalk and glanced at his reflection's empty glare. Empty. Broken. Nothing more than a machine malfunctioning. The memories racing through his head meant nothing; not a thing remained of the man within them. James Barnes was dead. Only the Winter Soldier remained. And as he'd found out that night, even that was beginning to fade.

He was breaking, mentally, physically as well if his arm was anything to go by, reduced to an uncontrollable, sloppy, panicked mess.

Defective.

_Bitte! Bitte! Tu mir nicht weh!_- _Please! Please! Don't hurt me!_

___Bitte…nicht mehr…_- Please...no more...

_Herr, herr! Danke, Vielen Dank! Geht es dir gut?- Sir, sir! Thank you, thank you so much! Are you alright?_

___Herr, sie sind mit einer Panikattacke sind_?- Sir, are you having a panic attack?

___Sie sollten gehen_.- You should leave.

-**Author's Note:**

This story will eventually hit a point where it gets kind of dark. I'm excited for the next chapter! And I imagined that Bucky would be pretty hyped about stars seeing as how he went to a science convention as a double-date. He's a science dork in my mind. Also, while writing the flashback, I was listening to 'Kinda Lonesome', by Maxine Sullivan, which kind of set the mood in my mind. Give it try if you're up to it; it's really great. :)

-**AC**


End file.
